


This City Desert

by silversmith



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:58:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silversmith/pseuds/silversmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is acting oddly (but then again, so is London...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It is raining for the third day straight. London is black and orange, sodium street-lamps shining in glassy puddles. John can’t remember the last time his jeans were dry.

“Horrible weather,” says Lestrade glumly. “You’d think it’d keep the murders indoors.”

Rain drums on the tops of police cars, and plinks off the crime scene tape.

“At least I’m not cooped up with him any more,” says John, nodding at Sherlock, who is bouncing around the corpse with a magnifying glass, happy as a puppy.

“Always glad to oblige with a nice violent crime,” says Lestrade. “God forbid he should be bored.” Big Ben tolls twelve, somewhere above their umbrellas. “God. And I was meant to be off early today.”

“Are you almost done there, Sherlock?” Rain is dripping uncomfortably down the back of John’s neck.

“Yeah, I think everyone’s keen to go home now,” says Lestrade. The forensics team nod sullen, damp agreement. “If you could just tell us where…”

Sherlock scrapes some mud off the victim’s clothes and into a plastic bag. “Cuts on his neck and head, but it was the stab wound in his stomach that killed him. He didn’t die here, obviously. He’s been riding a horse; you can see the marks on his trousers. He fell from a height when he was killed – probably off the horse – that explains the mud splashes. He was attacked by two or three people, also on horseback, judging by the direction of the cuts. Why were they riding horses? He’s too big to be a jockey and the wrong type for hunting; in fact, he’s a political activist who lobbies for tax cuts. Hobby, then? Seems unlikely, but could be. Find where the mud comes from and you can find the horses. Somewhere within the Greater London area, or the mud would have cracked on the journey here. Why was he moved at all? Don’t ask questions I can’t answer yet.”

“All right. Thanks, Sherlock. Do you know if…”

“Who was that?” says Sherlock sharply, snapping his head up.

“Who was what?”

“That man. He was carrying something heavy. And his clothes were splashed. He’s been in a boat.”

“Sherlock,” says John patiently, “it’s been raining for _days_. If his clothes were dry, then I’d be interested. Can we just…”

“What was he carrying?” says Sherlock to himself. Then he leaps up and sets off down the Embankment at a run. John and Lestrade watch him go, baffled.

“Do you know what’s he’s talking about?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

“Think we should follow him?”

“God, no. Not in this weather.”

“Well, I suppose he’ll text if it’s important. You all right getting home?”

“Yeah. Yeah, just get the Tube back.”

“All right. We’ll finish up here. Thanks for coming out this time of night.”

“No problem.”

John squelches off to the Tube station, thinking of tea and dry socks.

-

That’s a strange way to carry something heavy, thinks Sherlock. He’s trying to pretend it’s lighter than it really is. And why is he moving barrels in the middle of the night, anyway? Sherlock has never seen anything more suspicious. This is _interesting_. This is what he loves: a few stray, tantalising facts, out of order, pushing painfully at the corner of his mind, waiting for someone clever enough to find the pattern and put them back in their place and ensure that the world is still ticking on as it should.

Luckily, he’s the cleverest man he knows.

He drops to a crouch on the cold cobblestones. The barrel has been leaking: traces of glittering grey dust. He presses his fingertip into the gritty powder and licks it gingerly. Sulphur. Charcoal. And – potassium nitrate?

Black powder?

Now that’s unusual. He stands up. Why would anyone use black powder instead of smokeless? Fireworks? Safety flares? Antique firearms? He files away the possibilities for later, and darts in the direction the man was heading. But it’s difficult to see far in the fog and darkness. Where did he go?

Two shadowy figures emerge from a nearby house. (Small, but prime location. Must have cost a packet. So a rich man, or an influential one. Call in a few favours…) Sherlock presses himself against a wall and turns up his collar, holding his breath as they walk by. Yes, the man from earlier, and another. The first man is dressed like a caretaker; the second man calls him Johnson. They’re laughing together, sharing a quiet joke. And the barrel has been deposited in the house. Sherlock flits noiselessly after them as they stride back towards the river. And (ha! He knew it!) they have a boat, which they climb into, and push off the bank with a shuck and a gentle splash.

When they disappear into the fog, Sherlock emerges to examine the mud. A jumble of footprints, but quite clearly the same two men. Going back and forth several times, by the look of it. And always carrying something heavy on the return trip.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Sherlock runs his hands through his hair. What next? Something is definitely going on. Judging by the direction that boat took, they’re ferrying the barrels across from Lambeth, and being very furtive about it, too. And there’s something decidedly fishy about Johnson; Sherlock will eat his hat if he’s really a caretaker. 

He slams his fist against the wall in frustration. If only he could get across the river! But it’s miles to London Bridge and back; by the time he makes Lambeth they’ll be long gone. Infuriating! 

He wonders when they’ll get back. Of course, they might not even be coming back. He should probably go home. But why should he? Home is so boring! He hates being on his own all the time, not-smoking and not-thinking and not-doing anything _fun_. At least if he’s here, something might actually happen.

Think! What does he know? Johnson dresses like a servant. But he doesn’t talk like one, and the other man doesn’t treat him like one. And he walks like a soldier, like John. He –

Wait, John?

John. You know John. Short. Gun. Tea.

Of course. Yes. John. How could he have forgotten John? 

He feels a little worried.

Anyway, he needs to stay put, so he can wait for –

Who is he waiting for?

He suddenly finds that he can’t remember. He was here with John and Lestrade. But they’re long gone. And it was obvious that the killer would be nowhere nearby; Sherlock has the mud samples in his pocket to prove it. He frowns and looks around. The London Eye twinkles reassuringly back at him. Rain patters into the river; a few cars splash past. Sherlock shakes his head and waves for a taxi.

-

John is woken by the front door slamming. A few minutes later, his bedroom door creaks open and Sherlock shines a torch inside.

“Go _away_ ,” snarls John, putting his arm over his eyes. This is _not_ acceptable flatmate behaviour.

“Just… making sure you’re here,” says Sherlock.

“Why _wouldn’t_ I be here?”

“I don’t know,” says Sherlock, and goes away.


	2. Chapter 2

Monday dawns dimly, somewhere behind the dirty rainclouds. London is grey and drowning. Sherlock spends a profitable morning analysing his mud samples – “in the _teapot_?” shrieks John, and forces him to wash several hours’ work down the sink. 

“It’s an experiment, John!” Sherlock is outraged. “And I’ve run out of beakers.”

“You do your experiments at Barts,” says John, swilling bleach around the teapot. “That’s what we agreed, remember? After the spoons incident?”

“I don’t want to go to Barts,” mutters Sherlock petulantly. “I can’t wear my dressing gown at Barts.”

“Sherlock, they let you mutilate their corpses on a regular basis. I don’t think anyone will worry about what you’re wearing.”

Sherlock decides not to push it. After all, if John stays in the kitchen much longer, he might notice the phosphorus tests in his second-favourite mug, and Sherlock needs peace to analyse his data. He has soil types from every park in London, but these samples are proving decidedly intransigent.

Luckily, John is distracted by the TV, and Sherlock’s day continues productively. Over lunch, he gives a lecture on his progress. He can tell that John isn’t really listening (Afghanistan on the news; thinking about the war?) but he enjoys talking, anyway; it helps to clarify his thoughts, and he still harbours a vague hope that John will somehow pick up Sherlock’s genius by osmosis. (John rubs his shoulder absently; hypothesis confirmed. Sherlock feels smug.) He is just barrelling through a triumphant précis of the effects of roadworks on soil characteristics, punctuating his explanation with enthusiastic waves of a ham sandwich, when John’s phone rings.

“That’s odd,” says John. “It’s Harry.” He picks it up, apparently unaware that Sherlock is at a critical stage in his thought process. Then he says, “Oh. God. What happened?” in a flat tone, and walks out into the hall.

Sherlock considers these phenomena, finds them dull, and, disgruntled by the interruption, goes to look out of the window instead. Perhaps he’ll write an article, and leave it out pointedly for John to read. But John will probably have forgotten this whole conversation by the time it’s been peer-reviewed and published in a reputable journal. Useless! Sherlock drums his hands against the window. Rain drums back. The street below is, tediously, empty. Or – _almost_ empty.

He is studying the scene with interest when John returns.

“Who died?” says Sherlock, without turning around. “Second cousin?”

“For God’s sake,” says John.

“There’s no point being delicate. You never liked him anyway. Or her.”

“No, I didn’t,” says John. “We haven’t spoken for years. My uncle. I’ll have to go down for the funeral.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a family thing.” He shrugs. “They’re not optional.”

“Waste of time,” says Sherlock, steepling his fingers under his chin. “You might miss the denouement of our next case, and, judging by the erratic behaviour of our client outside, it’s going to be fascinating. What a loss for your blog.”

John joins him at the window and peers out. “I don’t see anyone.”

“You see; you don’t _observe_ ,” says Sherlock tranquilly.

“No, I don’t see. There’s no one there, which isn’t exactly a surprise, because of this bloody never-ending rain.”

Sherlock tuts. “John, you’ll never improve if you always focus on contingencies.”

“Right,” says John wearily. “OK. I need to iron my suit.”

He stamps upstairs as the doorbell rings. Sherlock shakes his head. John, he thinks sadly, is really not very observant at all. It’s lucky that one of them has the wit to keep track of who’s what. Just one look at the client and Sherlock can see: businessman turned politician. Lower-middle class roots. Self-made fortune: fabrics trade (very exclusive). City council (ambitious). Wife dead, no children. Cat. And he’s spent five minutes walking up and down Baker Street, peering at the houses as though they’re shrouded in thick fog, which is interesting behaviour on any count.

“What have you done to my ironing board?” yells John from his room.

“I’m busy!” Sherlock shouts, and turns back to his client. “You were saying, ah…”

“Sir Richard.”

“Sir Richard, yes. Carry on.” Sherlock frowns. He feels, all of a sudden, rather dizzy. That's annoying. Can’t observe things if you’re dizzy. He grabs the back of a chair and focuses on the client.

“As I said, Mr Holmes, I can certainly make it worth your while to get involved.” 

“Yes, yes. Just get on with it.” Baker Street has gone decidedly swimmy. Is that a bad thing? He observes that Sir Richard ate a ploughman’s for lunch, and feels a little better.

“A few years ago I set up a charity fund, in memory of my wife. It’s been very successful. We make donations to hospitals, libraries, women’s shelters. That sort of thing. A public health program in Tripoli. A cat sanctuary.” 

“Have you been ironing _credit cards_?” screams John.

“Experiment!” yells Sherlock. He turns back. Sir Richard seems to have gone all blurry. Sherlock rubs his eyes. 

“Mr Holmes?” 

God, he needs another nicotine patch. Maybe two. “Yes. What? Cats?” 

“Yes, I like cats. Is that a problem?”

“Of course you like cats; look at your elbows. Just – carry on.”

“One of my employees has been embezzling funds from my charity. I want to know who it was. I want you to find out, Mr Holmes.”

There’s a clattering noise from upstairs, and muffled swearing. Heavy footsteps on the staircase. A metallic bang; Sherlock winces. Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers is, apparently, being attacked and bested by an ironing board, halfway down the stairs. 

As he turns around to see what’s going on, the room fades, dissolves, and reforms in a kaleidoscope of grey. Sherlock takes a sharp breath, but recovers his composure in time to roll his eyes as John struggles down the last few steps.

Wait, wasn’t he doing something? Wasn’t there a client here? 

When did he leave?

-

John dumps the ironing board by the bottom of the stairs, and wonders how to get melted MasterCard off his household furnishings. Sherlock is clutching the back of an armchair, looking thoroughly confused.

“So where’s this fascinating client of yours?” says John.

“Client?” Sherlock jumps. “Oh, Sir Richard? Yes, he left. Dull. Very dull.”

“What was it all about?”

“Oh, you know.” He waves his hand. “The usual. Cats.”

“Cats?” John laughs. “So you were wrong, then?”

“Mmm? What? I’ve got to go out.”

“Where are you going?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock looks around the flat as though it’s empty.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock abruptly picks up his coat and leaves. John grabs his jacket.

“Sherlock,” he says, jogging to catch up. “Are you going to Barts? Because you left the…”

Sherlock stops. John hunches his shoulders against the rain and waits for enlightenment.

“Do you smell smoke?”

“What? No.”

Sherlock sniffs deeply, then licks his finger and holds it in the air. John stares at him.

“Coming from the City.”

“Well, I’m sure the fire brigade are on their way. Oh, come on, Sherlock, what are you…”

Sherlock is already running.

“Oh, bloody hell,” mutters John, and splashes after him. But Sherlock has disappeared. Where did he go? Into a back alley or something? 

He texts, _where are you?_ not expecting a reply. He doesn’t get one. Sherlock is very good at making it clear when he wants to be alone. John goes home.

-

The next time his phone rings, John leaps for it (ever hopeful), but it turns out to be Lestrade.

“Hi, John. Sherlock isn’t picking up. Is he with you?”

“No. No, he’s not.”

“Damn. Do you know where he is?”

“Well, he had plans to go to Barts. But then he ran off. Something about a fire. Or possibly a man called Sir Richard. You haven’t heard of him, have you?”

“’Fraid not.”

John hesitates. “I’m getting a bit worried about Sherlock, actually.”

“Story of my life,” growls Lestrade.

“Not just normal worried-about-Sherlock, though,” says John, scratching his head. “I mean, don’t you think he’s been odder than usual, recently?”

“Odder than _usual_?”

“He keeps – I don’t know – disappearing. And talking about things I don't think are actually there.”

“Yeah. Bit of a habit of his.”

“I suppose so,” says John doubtfully.

“Listen, get him to ring me, would you? Upstairs are on my back about this mysterious body, and we’re just hitting dead ends here. Can’t even work out where it came from. Which is bloody embarrassing.”

“All right. I’ll tell him to call. He’s been doing things with mud in the kitchen all morning, so, you know. I’m sure he’ll have something soon.”

“Great. Thanks, John.” He hangs up.

-

Sherlock can have impeccable timing when he wants to. He arrives home just as John has peeled the last of the plastic from the ironing board, and is switching on the oven for dinner.

“So. Put the fire out, did we?” says John, eyebrows raised.

“Fire? What fire?”

“Oh, come off it, Sherlock, you stink of smoke.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Sherlock.

“Fine,” says John, long-suffering, and gets another pizza out of the freezer.


	3. Chapter 3

Greasy yellow fog coils and smears itself against the windows. Sherlock has his ear pressed to the peeling wallpaper, and he taps gently along the wall. It’s solid. It shouldn’t be solid. What’s he missing? He’s spent hours going over every inch of the house and garden, and he still can’t find anything wrong.

“Terrible fog tonight,” says the policeman beside him conversationally. 

“Kindly shut up,” says Sherlock. “Your desperate attempts at banal conversation are putting everyone’s teeth on edge.”

The policeman splutters. Sherlock can feel him making a silent complaint to a superior behind his back. 

“And now your bruised ego is distracting me,” he adds, in case it wasn’t quite clear. “Perhaps your time would be better spent considering how to tell your wife that you’re the father of her sister’s expected child. Due any day now, hmm?”

A horrified silence descends. Much better. Perhaps Sherlock will actually be able to hear himself think now. He runs his fingertips along the skirting board and frowns. “John, pass me the spirit level.” He holds out his hand expectantly.

No one moves. Sherlock looks up. “John.”

Frowns, sideways glances.

“Where’s John?” he says.

“John who?”

“ _John_. You know John. He’s –” _Who is he?_ Sherlock mouths the name to himself. It seems to be important, but he can’t quite think why it’s in his head. He looks at the police officer in confusion. “Who are you?”

“Chief Inspector Dew. We’ve met.”

“Have we?”

He tries to remember how he got here, and realises that he can’t, in fact, remember anything he’s done today. Yesterday was the fire. He remembers that quite clearly; he remembers running through the smoke, scarf over his nose and mouth, frantically searching for someone he’d lost. Today, though, is hazy. His thoughts feel slow and heavy, like he’s dredging them up through treacle. He doesn’t like it. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t think I should be here.”

More surprised glances. “We called you in, Mr Holmes. You said you’d be happy to help.”

“No. No, there’s somewhere I’m meant to be. Someone’s missing.” (John, apparently. Whoever ‘John’ is.)

“Mr Holmes? Mr Holmes!”

He elbows past the cluster of protesting policemen and lets himself out of the front door. Cold rain batters down on his head and he lifts his face to it. That’s better. His head feels clearer already.

All right. What on earth are you doing?

Something’s wrong, he tells himself. Something feels very wrong and I don’t know why.

God, this is embarrassing. Now we’re having intuitions? Good luck explaining that one to Dew. It’ll be a miracle if he lets you back on the case.

Shut up about the case. This is important.

Sherlock, this is it. This is a big case. You can’t just walk away!

Shut up. I’m trying to think. Where am I?

Well, that’s easy. There’s a street sign. The Camden Road. 

And where am I supposed to be?

With Dew, says the voice at the back of his head. He ignores it.

With John. I should be with John. 

But who is John?

John. John is my – what? He makes a frustrated noise in his throat.

Blogger, supplies the air.

No. He still can’t picture John, but he can feel him now: a solid, comforting presence, burning warm and bright beside him, quietly, reassuringly real. John heating soup. John watching TV. John laughing beside him in a taxi. John always _there_. 

Friend? Yes, friend.

He closes his eyes and follows the feeling of John across London.

-

John has been nodding off in his armchair, but he leaps awake when he hears the click of the key, and his stomach does somersaults of relief. Sherlock drips through the door. Rain is sluicing off his hair and face and forming a small puddle on the carpet. He takes off his coat and drops it by his feet.

“So you’re back,” says John. “At,” checking his watch, “half past four in the morning.”

Sherlock stares at John with wild-eyed relief.

“I was worried,” says John, tight-lipped.

Sherlock blinks at him.

“Worried, Sherlock.”

“Why?” He sounds dazed. 

“Your phone. You went out without your phone.” He picks it up from a nest of newspapers on the table and waves it at Sherlock. “You never leave your phone behind.”

“Don’t I?”

“No, Sherlock. Where have you been?”

“I…” Sherlock looks at him in confusion. “John,” he tries. 

John’s eyes narrow. “Are you on something?”

“I think I’ll just lie down here,” says Sherlock, and collapses full-length onto the sofa.

John fumes, and goes to make himself tea. He doesn’t know why he bothers, sometimes. He doesn’t suppose Sherlock will ever deign to explain this one. Next time he’ll just leave the man to drown in a thunderstorm. 

He stirs the teabag viciously.

When he gets back to the living room, Sherlock is still on the sofa, curled up and shaking. His face is deathly white. John groans. Of course, he would be ill just when John wants to be angry with him. 

“What’s the matter now?” he says grumpily.

Sherlock just looks at him, and his teeth chatter. John feels his forehead: it’s freezing. 

“It’s all right,” he says (doctor voice). “You’re going to be fine. You’ve just been out in the cold too long.” 

He stumps off to get a blanket and a hot water bottle to tuck around his flatmate, hanging up Sherlock’s coat on the way past. He wishes Sherlock had let John give him a flu jab back in November. (That had been a fight and a half.)

“Sherlock,” he says, more gently this time. “Where have you been?”

Sherlock shifts. “There was a murder,” he whispers.

“Where?”

“Holloway.”

“Who died?”

“A woman. A singer. They couldn’t find the body.”

“Did Lestrade call you out?”

“No.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know their name?”

A long pause. “I don’t know how I knew about it.”

“OK.” John takes a deep breath. “Do you know why you left your phone behind?”

“No.”

“You left your wallet, too.”

“Did I?”

“How did you get to Holloway?”

“I walked.”

“You walked to Holloway? Sherlock, you’re not well. You can’t go out walking in the rain for hours.”

“Tell Dew to dig up the basement,” whispers Sherlock, and closes his eyes.

John shakes out a newspaper from the table and sits down in his armchair. There’s no point going back to sleep now. Over the top of the paper, he watches Sherlock breathe. 

It’s really not that cold out, he thinks. What the hell has he been up to?

“John,” says Sherlock suddenly, and there is a thread of fear in his voice. John puts the paper down, startled. 

“What is it?”

“You’re not going to leave me, are you?”

“No. No, of course I’m not, Sherlock. I’m not going to leave.”

“They said that everyone leaves,” whispers Sherlock.

“I’m not everyone,” says John, and he sounds so fierce that Sherlock believes him.

He’s asleep before John starts to wonder who _they_ are.


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning, Sherlock is irritatingly perky, and pours scorn on the idea of _medicine_ or _resting_. John watches him suspiciously as he flits around the kitchen with a pair of tongs, making toast on the Bunsen burner.

“Are you sure you’re all right? Let me…”

Sherlock bats John’s hand away from his forehead. “I’m fine, John. I don’t know what you’re so worried about.”

“Do you remember anything from last night?”

Sherlock looks at him blankly. John can’t tell if he’s genuinely confused or faking it. He sighs. “Fine, then. Listen, I’m off to Tesco. Try not to burn down the kitchen while I’m gone.”

When he gets back, the kitchen is still there, but Sherlock has disappeared. John swears, and calls Lestrade. He wonders if he should call Mycroft, but then he imagines explaining to Mycroft that he’s managed to lose a possibly delirious Sherlock, and the thought makes him blanch and quickly put the phone down. Lestrade hasn’t seen Sherlock since Sunday night in Westminster.

“Well, keep an eye out, would you?” says John. “I don’t think he’s well. And I’ve got to go to Eastbourne on Friday, my uncle’s funeral…”

“Thinks he’s a superhuman,” says Lestrade. “He’ll work himself into the ground one of these days. Sorry about your uncle. I’ll call you if we hear anything.”

He doesn’t call. John tells himself that this is good news, and spends his day tidying the flat. He finds nothing untoward; or, at least, nothing more untoward than a Petri dish of copper sulphate in the DVD rack, and a biscuit tin full of what seem to be broken shards of human rib. It is, he thinks, a sign of how strange his life has become that he finds these rather reassuring.

-

Long after dark, Sherlock stumbles back into the flat and grabs handfuls of John’s cardigan. “Someone killed the Princes,” he slurs. “I wasn’t there in time.”

Then he collapses in a pile on the floor.

John works automatically: put him into the recovery position, loosen his collar, elevate his feet. While he is doing so, Sherlock recovers enough to mumble “sofa”, which, John thinks, is just like him. He grits his teeth, drags Sherlock over to the sofa, and hoists him up on it. This is maddening. He just wishes he knew what’s wrong, and then perhaps he could do something about it.

It’s just Sherlock being an idiot, he tells himself. No regard for other people’s feelings. Because if he kills himself through overwork, he knows it’s going to be John who has to deal with all the paperwork. And he knows that John hates paperwork. 

If Sherlock kills himself through overwork, John is going to have to find a new flat. And a new career, too, because he is probably not really cut out to be a doctor if he lets his flatmates go about dying around him. His life will become very dull. And he’ll have to go to another funeral. John hates funerals.

For God’s sake. This is ridiculous. He’s not going to die. Not if John has anything to say about it.

He takes a deep breath. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Sherlock? You’re clearly ill. You need to stop this. Don’t you give a damn about your own health? No, I suppose not, because you’re bloody Sherlock Holmes and you think you’re some kind of invincible machine. Well, let me tell you, you’re not. You’re human, just like the rest of us. And you can’t keep going like this. You need to take a break.”

Sherlock’s eyes are glazed. John doesn’t even know if he’s listening.

-

The angry man is important. Sherlock can tell that by the way he glows. But why is it so difficult to focus on him? If he wants Sherlock to listen, he should stop going translucent like that. Sherlock wonders if the man is even solid. He tries to put a hand through his shoulder.

The man didn’t like that. He’s shouting now. But it’s all right, because he’s also fading away, and Sherlock doesn’t need to worry about why this worries him. Sherlock watches until he’s gone completely, then curls up on the sofa and dreams of the White Tower.

-

For the second night in a row, John sits guard in his armchair. He doesn’t know what he’s looking out for.

-

Sherlock sleeps through Thursday, until it’s dark again. When he finally wakes up, John makes him a cup of tea, because they’re going to have a Conversation. He has to push the mug into Sherlock’s unresisting hands. John sits on the coffee table and watches Sherlock look right through him.

“So. Last night. You were talking about some people called the Princes. Who are they?”

“Princes?” Sherlock looks at his mug as though he’s never seen one before.

“All right. You’re not going to tell me. Fine. That’s fine. Is this one of Mycroft’s things?”

“Mycroft.” He considers this. “I know a Mycroft.”

“Sherlock, you need to take a break. I don’t know what you’re up to, but you can’t keep this up. You’re going to make yourself very ill. When was the last time you took a holiday?”

“I don’t take holidays.”

“I think you need to. I think you need to get out of London, for a start.”

“No! I can’t leave London!” He looks panicked.

“I’m sure it’ll survive a few days without you.”

“I can’t leave the Game. It’s the only thing that’s important.”

“People are important.”

“No they’re not.”

John sucks his teeth. Sometimes trying to talk to Sherlock is like being repeatedly hit in the face by a robot.

“Sherlock, I’m worried about you. I know your cases are important, and I know you don’t like being away from your work, but…”

“You don’t know anything about me!” snaps Sherlock, and he looks at John with raw distrust. “Who are you, anyway?”

John sighs. “I’m a doctor, Sherlock. And I’m your friend.”

“Oh.” Then, softly, “John?”

“Yes?”

“Good. I thought I remembered you.”

“Please, Sherlock. This is important.”

He looks at John suspiciously. “You want me to leave London?”

“Yeah, listen. I’ve got to go down to my uncle’s funeral tomorrow. You should come with me. Down to the coast. You’ll like it. Lots of,” he flails, “old ladies cheating at bingo. You can go for a nice walk while I’m in the church. It’d do you good to get a bit of fresh air.” He pauses. “Are you listening to me?”

Sherlock is shaking his head. “I can’t leave London. There’s too much happening. It’s all happening now.”

“What’s happening?”

“Everything, John! Everything’s happening! Don’t you understand? It’s all happening now!”

“Sherlock.”

“No, no. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to go now. He’s getting away!”

Sherlock stands up and stumbles towards the door. John grabs him. “Who’s getting away?”

“Let me go!”

“You’re not going anywhere. You’re ill.” 

John tries to wrestle him back onto the sofa. Sherlock flails at him. “Let me go! I’ve got to go _now_!” 

With a guilty jolt, John realises that Sherlock is on the verge of tears. He lets go, shocked. “God, Sherlock. What’s the matter?”

“They need me. They said I’m the only one who can help. I have to find him. I have to.”

John, by now, has run through _delirium_ to _hallucinations_ to _we’re both going mad_. Well, at least he can make sure that they’re going together. “OK, Sherlock. OK. You can go. You can go, if I can come with you.”

To his relief, Sherlock looks hopeful. “Would you come with me? I don’t trust anyone out there.” Then his face drops. “But I don’t know if you can. I don’t think it’s allowed.”

“I don’t give a damn what’s allowed,” says John grimly. “I’m not going to leave you.”


	5. Chapter 5

This is easier said than done. Sherlock runs and runs through London; he has been running, now, for a long time, and he seems to have forgotten that John is with him at all. At least the rain has finally stopped, though it seems to have been replaced by a horrible yellowish fog, which oozes thickly around their feet. John fervently hopes that he doesn’t break an ankle. 

Sherlock darts sideways into an alley John hadn’t noticed, and John skids and stumbles behind him. He has lost all sense of direction by now, but he’s damned if he’s going to let Sherlock disappear again, and turn up God knows how much later, shaking and frightened. 

“Sherlock! Slow _down_ , would you?”

He follows the swish of Sherlock’s coat down the alley. The sound of cabs rattling past recedes behind them, and all John can hear is the heavy rush of his own breath and the pound of his feet. He can hardly see Sherlock any more; only the fog, and the flickering gas lamps twenty feet up.

“Sherlock? Where are you?”

Nothing.

“Sherlock!”

John almost runs into a wall.

_What the hell?_

The alley is a dead end. The only way out is through a heavy wooden door in the wall, with big bolts rusted over. It looks like it hasn’t opened for centuries. John glances up. The wall is damp and smooth, and much too high for Sherlock to have climbed alone.

The door creaks and swings open as John stares at it.

Something very odd is going on. 

John takes out his gun and holds it by his side as he creeps towards the door. Then he brings it up and round, sweeps inside. There’s no one there. Behind the door is nothing but a set of stone steps, leading down into the darkness. 

John does not like this one bit. But Sherlock came this way. Sherlock went down there, he must have done, and that’s really all that matters, because John will follow him anywhere, even down unpleasant staircases that materialise in alleyways and lead down into creepy-as-hell who-knows-what. John grits his teeth and sets off down the steps, one hand trailing against the wall for balance. He jumps when the door thuds shut behind him.

The staircase is as unpleasant as it looked. The stairs are uneven, slick and slimy, and it’s freezing cold. Fog flickers up his legs, tugs insistent tendrils at him. John is not quite sure that fog is meant to act like this. He’s not quite sure that fog is meant to be underground, either. _Bloody Sherlock, rearranging weather systems again._ The thought makes him grin.

Then the steps come to an end. There’s a dark, dank tunnel, and more of the awful fog, and something is oozing and dripping down the walls. John fervently hopes that this isn’t a sewer. He will never forgive Sherlock if it is. He imagines their mock-angry argument: _‘You disrupted my titration!’ ‘You dragged me into a sewer, Sherlock. A sewer. I had to throw out my favourite pair of shoes.’_ (They’re not his favourites; he’s just enjoying the fight.) He exchanges his gun for a torch, but it only reflects fog back at him, so he switches it off again and ploughs on. The whole place has the dark and dusty smell of the deep Tube lines. Is he in an old station? He can’t hear any trains.

As he walks, he begins to feel better. He has no idea what’s going on, but then, it’s not as if that’s an entirely new sensation. And at least it looks like he’s finally going to discover where Sherlock’s been disappearing to. He has hated not knowing how to help the past few days, but now there is danger and he is a soldier and he knows he can trust himself, whatever happens next. John is quietly happy. They can’t do anything to him, and he won’t let them do anything to Sherlock. So there’s nothing to worry about. Might as well enjoy the adrenaline kick. He wades on through the fog.

Eventually he picks out something new ahead. A flicker of light. Fire? The smell is stronger now, and the fog is thicker. He has to stumble blind for his last few steps, arms stretched out in front of him, and then it clears a little and he is in some kind of low-roofed, vaulted crypt. The walls are uneven, creamy stone, and there are gas lamps hanging from the pillars, and it feels so old it’s almost crushing.

And there is a woman, watching him. Her hair is the grey of a London sky, and her eyes are the grey of the London Thames, and her white dress is smudged and smutted with centuries of London smoke. Portland limestone, thinks John. 

“All right,” he says, and is pleased that he sounds angry. “What’s going on?”

She smiles at him, coldly. “So you’re _John_. I’ve heard a lot about you. You’ve been getting in my way.”

“That’s Dr Watson to you.” He puts his hands in his pockets and juts his chin out defiantly. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“Hmm, single-minded, aren’t we? But I can tell we won’t get anywhere until we’ve dealt with the preliminaries.”

She waves a hand, and the fog curls away from the floor between them. Sherlock is lying on the tiles, eyes closed, lips blue. John drops to his knees beside him and takes his pulse. It’s faint, and he’s cold as stone.

“What are you doing to him?”

“I’m giving him what he wants.”

“You’re killing him!”

“I’m making him immortal.” She shrugs. “I suppose, to a human, it’s much the same thing.”

“This is not what he wants.”

She laughs. “You _are_ sweet.”

John drops Sherlock’s wrist and stands up. His mind is furiously clear. Eliminate the impossible, Sherlock said, but John doesn’t know what’s possible and what isn’t any more, so he goes for the only thing he’s got left. 

“You’ve had him running around London. Chasing,” he smiles disbelievingly, “chasing Dr Crippen, and Richard the Third, and God knows who else. Jack the Ripper? Sweeney Todd? And was that the Great Fire he was trying to put out?”

“Oh, not bad,” she says. “But I’m afraid Sweeney Todd was just a story.”

“Yes he was,” says John. “But I’m not sure how much that matters any more.”

She looks at him appraisingly. “Very good. London is built on stories, you know. And built of them, too. After a few thousand years, reality is something of a… relative term.”

“That sounds dangerous.” John glances surreptitiously round the crypt. No other way out.

“Very dangerous. Boudicca was only the first who tried to burn it. She knew the power of a good story. But then, you’ve felt it too, haven’t you, Dr Watson? You couldn’t afford to stay, and yet, you couldn’t quite bear to leave. Because everyone knows that the only stories that matter happen in London.”

“Sir Richard Whittington. And his cat.”

“Yes, that was a good one, don’t you think? Such a boring man, but he did so want to be remembered. And nobody remembers a mayor, not for long enough to make it count.”

“So, you take ordinary people, like Sir Richard. And Sherlock. And what? Make them into your stories?”

“I make them into gods,” she said, smiling beatifically. “But stories, yes. The stories are important. That’s why people remember; that’s why they come. And you’re quite wrong, Dr Watson. These aren’t ordinary people. They have to want it.”

“Sherlock doesn’t want to be a story. He wants to be a person.”

“Wrong again, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I’m his city.”

“I’m his best friend!”

“I made him what he is! I gave him his cases. I gave him his flat, his cabs, his funny hat. I even gave him you to make him famous. He’s more story than person now. If I take it from him, what will he have left?”

“He’ll have me.”

“And you think he’ll care about that, if he’s lost his precious Game? I suppose you think you can _save_ him. Well, that’s not unusual. I’ve had dozens of you down here, persistent types; think they matter to someone. But don’t be fooled. They all want something more, in the end.”

“Not him.”

“Richard wanted power. Jack wanted blood. Sherlock wants the Game. You’ve kept him grounded for a while, but you can’t win, Dr Watson. I’ve had enough of you sneaking into his mind when he should be playing with me. It’s time to find out what really matters to him. Don’t you think?”

She raises her hand, and the fog begins to rise again, swallowing her, smothering the lights. John drops to his knees. He touches his mouth to Sherlock’s cold forehead and thinks of _not-London_ as fiercely as he can: his grandfather’s farm, a childhood summer, the ocean and the orchard and the sweet green downs. He thinks of lying in the warm, tussocky grass, watching the clouds scud above him and the seagulls wheel and a lazy bee float by. He feels the sea wind in his hair and the gentle curve of white cliffs, and miles and miles of rolling green on the very rooftop of the world.

He tries to drag Sherlock there with him. But it’s wrong, he can feel it. Sherlock hates the open; he wants an alley to hide in. He’s angry with John. This isn’t where he belongs. He runs back to the streets of London; he runs through them in the darkness, beautiful, delighted, glorious. This is what he was made for! This is what is right! _No!_ John tries to shout, _not without me!_ But London is leading him on, and Sherlock is joyfully chasing the Game, bounding into eternity. And John sees Sherlock running; he sees London pulling her puppet strings, making him dance.

John fights for Sussex.


	6. Chapter 6

“Throat cut, left to right. No signs of mutilation. Bruising suggests she was pinned down. Scarf ripped. Packet of sweets in her left hand. Is that important? Probably not.” Sherlock jumps up. “I need to speak to the man who found her.”

“We’ve got him right here, Mr Holmes,” says Dew. “Louis Diemschutz.”

The man is shoved forward roughly. Sherlock looks at him (Jewish. Eastern European? No – Russian. Works at an outdoor market. Married. Socialist. Drives a pony and cart) and decides that he’s probably going to be useless.

“So, Mr Diemschutz,” he says. “You’re certainly strong enough to have pinned a woman down and cut her throat. Got an alibi for last night?”

“I – what? No! Mr Holmes, I swear, never!”

“What did you see when you found her?”

“I saw something lying on the ground. It was so dark; I had to strike a match. And I saw – all shiny, the blood just running out of her…”

“Really? That’s interesting. You must have arrived just moments after she was killed. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Diemschutz breaks into sobs. “Oh, Mr Holmes! You must believe me! Oh, please! You do believe me, don’t you?”

Dear God. The man is a gibbering idiot. Sherlock hates dealing with these people. Someone else usually does that for him. This is the part where he should be jumping in, reassuring. Where is he now? Wasn’t he with Sherlock before?

He shakes his head impatiently. Never mind that! There’s a case to solve! The idiots can take care of themselves. After all, it’s not as if there aren’t enough of them.

“Mr Holmes?” interrupts Dew. “Are you finished here? Because there’s another body for you to look at.”

“Another one? Yes, show me!”

“And the writing on the wall. We found a piece of bloodied cloth beneath it.”

Two bodies? Writing on the wall? Oh, they’re spoiling him today! Sherlock is gleeful as they bring him to the second body; even more so when it turns out that it has been horribly mutilated. Nasty work. Real brutality in it. He whistles in admiration, and waits for censure. 

_(There’s a woman lying dead!)_

But nobody here seems to mind. That was not good, he thinks; in fact, he’s fairly certain of it. Probably the way he treated Diemschutz was not good either. These people don’t care, though. And, for some reason, that makes him feel uncomfortable. 

“If you’re done here, Mr Holmes, we should bring you to Goulston Street. We’ll need to wash the wall down soon; don’t want to start a riot.”

“Oh, I love a good riot,” he says experimentally. Dew doesn’t blink.

As they stride through the foggy streets of Whitechapel, Sherlock pushes his doubts to one side. Feelings! No good at all. Stick to the facts. And the fact is that this is the most interesting case he can remember. He has already thought of thirty-nine possibilities, and ways to test twenty-five of them, and some of them are so ingenious he really hopes they’re true, because oh, it’s fun to be up against an artist! It’s as though this case had been made for him.

They turn into a narrow, cobbled street. A gang of barefoot children, huddling around a water pump, scatters at their approach.

“Blimey,” says one of the policemen. “What’s that smell, then?”

“Oh, they’re putting something in the water about here. They say it stops the cholera.”

“Don’t smell good though, dunnit? Go on, you can’t tell me that’s natural.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to tell him about the disinfectant properties of chlorine, but then he closes his mouth again as the smell reaches him and something thuds into his brain so hard that he almost staggers.

He remembers: a swimming pool. There was a man there, in a fur-lined parka. Sherlock was going to throw away the case for him. 

He was going to die for Sherlock.

Is that true? Yes: he is living the whole thing again, with every breath of chlorine-soaked air, and it is so unexpectedly real that it leaves him gasping. But where is the man now? He was here; he said he would be here, and Sherlock trusted him. He said he wouldn’t leave; he never leaves Sherlock unless there’s something wrong. So something must be wrong. And (astonishing! but he remembers it from the pool) the man trusts Sherlock to make things right. 

Sherlock is suddenly filled with the conviction that this is more important than even a beautifully mutilated corpse.

He turns on Dew. “Where’s the other man?”

“What other man?”

“The man who was with me.”

“There’s never anyone with you. Why, you don’t need anyone else. You’re the great Sherlock Holmes!”

“No,” Sherlock insists. “He’s always here. I remember him; we were running. He was right behind me.”

“Anyway, I think you’ve got more important things to worry about just now,” says Sir Richard _(when did he get here?)_

“ _This_ is important.”

“He’s not real, Sherlock,” says Sir Richard soothingly. “You just made him up when you were bored. But now you never have to be bored again. We’re all here, now. Two thousand years of cases, just for you!”

“I’m telling you, I remember him!”

“You don’t even know his name!”

Sherlock can feel his face twitching with fury. He thinks about the swimming pool. “I _need_ to find him.”

“Just come and look at the wall. Then you can look for him. Later. We’ll all help.”

“I want him now. I’m not going without him.”

Dew chips in, distraught. “But you’re our only hope! You must help us solve the case!”

Sherlock waves him off. “Not my problem.”

Dew grabs his arm. “Mr Holmes! You must stay! It’s the case of a lifetime!”

Sherlock twists and slips through his grasp, and he starts to run. He can hear Sir Richard shouting behind him, but he keeps going until he hits the main road. Rain beats down as he hails a taxi for Baker Street and collapses into the back seat. 

_All right. Focus._ The taxi helps. He remembers being in a taxi with the other man. Which is reassuring, because he doesn’t remember very much about the other man at all. Why does he keep forgetting? It’s a sign, thinks Sherlock, that something is badly wrong, because usually he remembers everything. He remembers that there were thirty steps up to the Princes’ room in the Tower, and the nineteenth one was wobbly; and that the man who carried gunpowder to Parliament had badly bitten fingernails and size nine feet; and that he saw a total of seventeen horses two pigs one cockerel and forty-eight pigeons while London was burning. So why is this man so hazy?

_You’re going mad. They always said there was something wrong with you. Never grew out of your imaginary friends, did you?_

No. If there’s one thing Sherlock knows for certain it’s that he didn’t make him up. He couldn’t have. Sherlock couldn’t ever have imagined anyone who would jump in front of a sniper for him. 

He closes his eyes and presses his fingertips into his temples. _Oh, come on. You have an eidetic memory. This shouldn’t be that difficult._ Eventually, he manages to dredge a picture to the surface: a man in an Aran jumper, tapping away at a laptop. He smells of honey and soap.

Yes, that’s the man. For God’s sake, try to remember him.

At Baker Street, he pays the driver, leaps out of the cab and rushes into 221B. The living room looks emptier than usual; Sherlock rapidly inventories his belongings and finds nothing missing. 

Focus! The other man. His things. Where are they? 

Yes, he had things. He had an ironing board and a teapot and a second-favourite mug. Sherlock was using it for his phosphorus tests. He sweeps through the kitchen cupboards. It isn’t there. 

The man had a bedroom. Sherlock takes the stairs three at a time and finds the room is utterly bare. He stands in the middle of the empty room and scowls.

“Where is he?” says Sherlock, and is irritated to find that his voice is rather higher than normal. He clears his throat. “What have you done with him?” In case anyone is bugging the flat, he adds, “I will burn down this city if you don’t give him back.”

Nothing happens.

Sherlock growls and runs downstairs. He picks up his… _thing, phone, yes, it’s a phone_ and looks at it. He should call people. What people does he know? There’s Sir Richard, and there’s Dew, but he doesn’t think either of them will help. He peers at the unfamiliar name on the screen and returns his last missed call.

“Lestrade.”

Oh! He does know a Lestrade. This is a good sign. 

“Lestrade! Someone’s missing!”

“Oh, it’s you. Is this about the Westminster body?”

“No, shut up. This is important. Where is… you know? The man.”

“What man?”

“The man in the jumper! With the… you know. He’s got a gun. You know the man! Where is he?”

“Jumper? You mean John?”

“Yes, John, of course I mean John! Where is he?”

 _John_ , he scribbles on his shirt sleeve, just to be sure he remembers.

“Well, he’s in Eastbourne, isn’t he?”

“No! Eastbourne, what would he be in Eastbourne for?”

“He said he had a funeral to go to. His uncle?”

“No, no, no. He never left London.”

“He definitely said he’d be in Eastbourne today. Hey, I don’t suppose you’ve…”

“No!” Lestrade is being purposely dense, as usual. “He can’t leave London because I can’t leave London and he can’t go without me.”

“If you say so. Listen, Sherlock, I’m a bit busy here – back-to-back meetings till six – so if this isn’t urgent…”

Sherlock hangs up. _Not urgent!_ Doesn’t he know what it’s like here, without John? Sherlock doesn’t like it at all. It doesn’t feel like home any more. He paces the room, distracted; picks up his violin. His hands automatically start playing Bach’s Chaconne. John liked that one. He can picture it: John after his nightmares, sitting bolt upright in his armchair, eyes closed, feet flat on the floor. John listening to the music, beginning to smile.

(Fog gathers outside. London grows dark.)

Sherlock plays to the end of the piece and puts the violin down, feeling better. What was he so worked up about? He can’t remember. No need to worry. He’s been getting too stressed, recently; someone told him that. Now, what was he doing?

He wanders back into the kitchen. Mud samples! That was it. He was going to take them to Barts. 

Barts? 

(Fog begins to creep up the windows.)

St Bartholomew’s. Priory at Smithfield.

 _Smithfield!_ He smacks himself on the forehead and jumps a few times for good measure. Why didn’t he think of Smithfield before? He has no mud samples from there (why not? Appalling oversight!) and, of course, that’s where they held the tax demonstrations. A man like that activist would have been in his element – riding up and down in front of the crowds; the counter-protest; a fight breaks out; everyone goes for their swords. And later, they just dump the body…

Ha! The Game is back on!

All that time in St Bartholomew’s and he didn’t even think of the field outside. He’s getting sloppy. Well, time to make up for it now! He laughs and claps his hands. He’s going to get to the bottom of this! 

As he lunges for his coat, he catches a glimpse of a name, inked in black on his sleeve. He only hesitates for a moment. 

The fog closes in behind him as he runs.


	7. Chapter 7

John notices the smell first, the bright, clean smell of the sea. You don’t get a smell like that in London. He lifts his head from the table and frowns. He is alone, at the kitchen table, and white winter sunlight is straining in through the windowshades.

He can’t remember how he got here. He knows that, if he goes outside, he will see the orchard, and the swelling downs, and the blue sky stretching down to the horizon. So many summer holidays, so long ago. In Afghanistan, this was the place he thought of as home, even though he’s never actually lived here. 

_(He was very small, and he had been stung by a bee. His grandfather was teaching him not to be afraid. Go out again, he said, and John marched up to put his hand right into the beehive, and had to be whisked away by his screaming mother…)_

There’s a letter on the table beside him. John squints at it. Family solicitor. The farm, built by his grandfather after the war, has been left to him by his uncle. He finds himself curiously unmoved by this news. He wonders if he’ll have to live here, now. He wonders if this is London’s way of telling him not to come back.

With a jolt, he remembers London. He remembers Sherlock running for hours, desperate through the darkness, oblivious to John screaming his name. He remembers London laughing, reaching out greedy claws to pull him in. And then, confusion, and blackness, and John woke up here, alone.

John puts his head in his hands. God, to think he was idiot enough to believe… But it’s not important. He had known all along, really, that he would ultimately be dispensable. It was good while it lasted; it was good. And Sherlock, he realises, will be very happy as a story. Just him and his cases, day in, day out; he never wanted anything more. And really, Sussex isn’t so bad, after all. He had loved it when he was a child...

Someone coughs apologetically. John jerks his head up.

Sherlock is there. He is holding a set of lock picks, and looking a little worried.

“John?” he says. “You weren’t answering the door.”

John leaps to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing, taking the waters?” Sherlock scowls. “I was looking for you.”

“For me? You left London?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Your powers of observation never cease to amaze me, John.”

“And you’re still – you’re all right?”

“Well, I was almost savaged by a collie on the cliff path, but I’m sure it’s nothing that a cup of tea won’t fix.” He stares pointedly at the kettle.

John, moving on autopilot, fills the kettle and acquires two mugs. “So,” he says. “Uh… how did you get here?”

Sherlock frowns. “Train to Eastbourne, I suppose. Then I walked.”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

“That’s how you get here, isn’t it? On the train.”

“And… the case?”

“Lestrade’s on it. He’ll be fine. I don’t need to go back for a while.” He looks like a weight has lifted off his back, and his skin is no longer that sallow Portland white. 

“Good. That’s good.” John fiddles with the teapot. “I’ll… need to stay here for a bit. I need to find something to do with the house.”

“I don’t think that should be a problem,” says Sherlock. He takes his coat off and hangs it over a chair, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, as if every day he and John take trips to relax in John’s farmhouse in Sussex.

“Really, though,” says John, doubtfully. “What about the Game? Aren’t you missing something exciting?”

Sherlock shrugs. “People are more important,” he says.

Something untwists in John’s chest. He can hear seagulls crying overhead, and he realises suddenly just how much he’s missed the sea. He smiles. He’ll make the tea, and then he’ll check on the beehives, and then he’ll walk down to the beach…

“I remember something,” says Sherlock softly.

“Mmm?”

“There was fog,” says Sherlock. “And it was dark. And then you were there. You brought me here. You said you would keep me safe. Did that happen?”

John shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says carefully. “I suppose it could have. In one way or another. But it’s all right now.”

“Yes,” says Sherlock, watching him closely. “It’s all right now.”

They are quiet for a minute, and then John says, “Um. Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Why do you have my name written on your sleeve?”

Sherlock frowns at it. “Mmm? Oh. In case I… forgot who I was looking for.”

“Did you?”

“Of course not,” says Sherlock scornfully. “Though,” he adds, “I’m afraid Lestrade now thinks I’m quite crazy.”

“Well, he thought that anyway.”

“Ha! Yes. Yes, he did.” He looks around. “You know, I think you were right. It is good to get out of London. It’s peaceful here. You never told me it was so beautiful.”

He settles down in a chair as if he belongs here, as if he never ran half-mad through London in the fog and the bitter darkness, and he smiles at John like he’s come home. 

John laughs with real joy, because this feels just as right as Baker Street ever did. 

“How do you feel about bees?” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thanks for reading! London's stories, in case you're interested: the Gunpowder Plot, Dick Whittington, the Great Fire of London, Dr Crippen, the Princes in the Tower, Jack the Ripper, and Wat Tyler (the man killed at Smithfield)._


End file.
